What Makes the Man
by The Migratory Lime
Summary: John Watson had come to expect a great deal of strange things in living with Sherlock Holmes. But he never expected this. Johnlock. Crack.


**Title**: What Makes the Man

**Fandom**: Sherlock

**Pairing(s)**: John/Sherlock

**Warning(s)**: Crack, Mild Slash, Strong Language

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters. Both are the property of Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, respectively.

* * *

Fuck the grocer's.

John entered the downstairs of the flat with a discernible bang, his mouth drawn into a hard, angry line. He wasn't quite certain _why_ things always went wrong in that godforsaken store, but they inevitably did. It never failed. He wasn't even sure why he kept going. It certainly wasn't the only place to buy groceries in London. There were dozens of other places he could go. But that particular shop was the closest, and when they ran out of milk (like they always did) and Sherlock refused to go out and buy some his own bloody self (like he always did) it was the easiest place to head to.

But not today. Today was simply one of those days that started out disastrous and refused to let up. Earlier that morning, he'd woken to the customary "John! John! John!" that always accompanied one of Sherlock's more minor discoveries. Crawling out of bed, bleary-eyed and barely awake, he headed downstairs to find the entire kitchen filled with smoke, the aftermath of, he later learned, a small explosion. The fire which the smoke accompanied was equally small, and easily smothered, but it had not failed to ruin his morning. Then they ran out of milk, and Sherlock was in one of his moods, and the shrieking of his violin was driving John absolutely _mad_. So off to the store it was.

But it hadn't stopped there.

The checkout area had, as always, claimed its stake as his own personal nemesis (the Jim Moriarty to his Sherlock) in a whirlwind of loud electronic voices wailing about unexpected objects in the bagging area. John actually got so annoyed with it all that he punched the damn thing. And then it'd broken. And then the sales associate threatened to charge him for the entire machine, leading to him shouting a number of obscenities at said associate. And then he was escorted from the store by management.

In the end, he walked an additional eight blocks to go to another store entirely, bought the bloody milk and a few other groceries, and then made the long walk home in a horribly sour mood. Thankfully, the screeching of Sherlock's violin was wonderfully absent, and John set the bags down for a moment to take off his coat and hang it on the rack. Rubbing his temples, he tried to calm himself. Maybe things would calm down a bit now. Maybe Sherlock would be in a better mood. Maybe rainbows would fire out of his arse. Sod it. Picking the bags back up, John started up the stairs, only to be stopped when the bag of crisps he'd perched precariously atop a few other items fell out.

As he stooped to pick it up, he heard what sounded like Mrs. Hudson making an impatient noise from behind the door to their flat.

"Honestly, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson chastised, "If you don't stop wriggling around like that, I'll start pricking you on purpose!"

Sherlock didn't respond, just made a soft noise of consent accompanied by the rustle of fabric. John cocked an eyebrow. What the hell was going on?

Pressing through the leftmost door and into the kitchen, he immediately began putting away groceries. Whatever was going on, it could wait. Knowing Sherlock, he'd probably gotten himself hurt and Mrs. Hudson was bandaging him up.

"John?" Sherlock called from the living room, "Is that you?"

"Obviously," John called back, popping open the fridge and placing the milk in the first open spot he found. Thankfully, at the moment, Sherlock didn't have too many ongoing experiments crowding the shelves. "What's going on in there?"

"Oh, nothing, dear," Mrs. Hudson called back, sounding pleasant as ever, "Sherlock's just helping me with a bit of tailoring."

"John," Sherlock called again, and John quirked an eyebrow at the rather strange tone in his voice, "Please don't come in here."

"What?" he called back, curiosity immediately piqued as he put away the last of the groceries, "Why not?"

"Just… please. Don't."

John wasn't certain he'd ever heard Sherlock sound quite so vulnerable. What the bloody hell was going on in there? What, was he in his pants? That didn't make sense. John saw Sherlock in his pants all the time.

He shook his head, a bit of color rising to his cheeks. _No_. Those thoughts were exactly the reason why everyone thought they were a couple. Damn Sherlock for being so unashamed. It was all his fault. _Honestly_.

Now. John Watson had come to expect a great deal of strange things in living with Sherlock Holmes. He'd come to expect body parts in the fridge. In the microwave. In the bathtub. He'd come to expect small chemical fires and explosions in the kitchen. In the bathroom. In Sherlock's bed. He'd come to expect hearing the violin at two in the morning. At three in the morning. At four in the _bloody_ morning. But never, and he meant that in the strongest sense of the word, had he ever expected to step into the living room and see _that_.

Sherlock was in a dress. A long, swanky red dress with a slit up the leg that went clear to the hip and a silver-sequined front and oh, God. What. John was almost certain that the horror written across Sherlock's face was a perfect mirror for the horror written across his own. It was the first time he had ever seen the consulting detective looking absolutely humiliated, but it was a moment short-lived. Sherlock's horror disappeared almost immediately, lost behind a mask of stony indifference. Mrs. Hudson looked up from where she was pinning the hem of the dress and smiled kindly. John gave a shaky smile in return.

"I know this all looks rather silly," Mrs. Hudson said, and try as he might, John couldn't quite tear his eyes away from Sherlock, "But it's all with good reason." The front of the dress was too loose. "The girl who I'm tailoring this dress for, she's just a slip of a thing and incredibly tall, just like Sherlock." Sherlock had nothing to fill it in with. "And you see, I was having trouble getting it the right length without the girl around to wear it." Oh God. John could see Sherlock's chest hair. "So I came to Sherlock and bless his heart, he offered to help me tailor it."

"Though I didn't imagine you'd be home in any time to see it," Sherlock corrected, taking a moment to wet his lips and look away, "Had a particularly violent row with the chip and pin machine again, I see."

It took John exactly thirty seconds to realize that he was still staring, and fifteen more to process a response. "Er… Um… Yes."

What the hell was wrong with him? He should be laughing right now. Rolling around on the floor with tears streaming from his eyes. Taunting him. Something. Anything. Not staring. Not having these… "feelings" that were creeping up on him, whatever they were. This was all wrong. It was just all so horribly wrong.

"John, dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked, worry crinkling her brow, "You're looking rather pale."

John jumped at her observation, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from Sherlock and stare at something else. Eventually he managed to train his eyes on Sherlock's pet skull across the room and let loose a string of incoherent word vomit. "Um… Er… Yes! Fine! I'm absolutely fine!"

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Hudson pressed, settling her pincushion on the coffee table and beginning to stand. John couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock might be thinking, but the instant he gathered the courage to look in the other man's general direction, a warm palm came down to rest against his forehead. It was Mrs. Hudson, eyes full of motherly concern. "You're not looking too well." She turned her palm over, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead, instead. "And your temperature seems a little elevated." She rested a hand gently on his shoulder and steered him in the general direction of his armchair, "Settle down, dear. I'll make you a nice cuppa. That should brighten you a bit."

"No!" He cried, startling Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock both. Instantly ashamed, he trained his eyes on the floor and tried hard to ignore the smear of red in the corner of his vision. John took a moment to calm himself, then spoke again, quietly. "I mean… No. It's… It's fine. I think I'll just go lie down. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

John stole a glance in the consulting detective's general direction and felt his heart begin to thrum frantically in his chest once again. If Sherlock had caught on to his response, his face definitely wasn't showing it. But then, did Sherlock's face ever betray his emotions? Oh, God. John definitely needed to get out of here. Now.

"Alright, then," Mrs. Hudson replied hesitantly, giving him a somewhat unconvinced look as she made her way back over to Sherlock, "I hope you feel better soon, love."

"Y-Yes," he stammered, making a beeline through the kitchen and out into the hall, pausing to call back, "Th-thank you!"

Taking the stairs up to his room two at a time, John tried hard to quash his internal monologue. This wasn't normal. Oh, God, this wasn't normal. He shut the door behind him with as little force as he could manage, then fell back on his bed and threw his forearm across his eyes. This was stupid. This was all really, really stupid. He should be laughing. He should be downstairs giving Sherlock hell. This entire situation was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

So why was he feeling so… … …aroused?

God! How could he honestly be thinking something so ridiculous? He wasn't aroused. That was stupid. This was all stupid. Sherlock was wearing a dress. John wasn't gay. Men in dresses were not attractive. Sherlock in a dress was not attractive. _At all_. It was ridiculous. Like this whole bloody situation!

But Sherlock alone… John had to admit it. The man, himself, _was_ attractive. Absurdly so.

John turned over onto his stomach, his face smushed up against the pillow. He looked and felt like a kicked puppy. This wasn't fair! Why now? Why did he have to realize these feelings now, while Sherlock was downstairs in a bloody dress? A dress with sequins and a slit up the leg, no less! He whimpered. He wasn't supposed to be gay, dammit! He was supposed to prove everyone wrong! Squash the speculation with a beautiful wife and two kids and a giant pointer finger crowing "HA HA" as they all paraded past his house in defeat!

But there was no denying it. Sherlock was damn attractive, and in the sort of way that had John even now fantasizing about pinning him roughly against the wall and doing things to him he'd never imagined before. Making him beg for mercy like Irene Adler never could.

Wait, what?

Fuck.

* * *

Later that night, John headed down into the kitchen and found Sherlock sitting at the table, body mercifully devoid of any red fabric, leaned over his microscope. The consulting detective spoke almost immediately, but never tore his eyes away from the eyepiece.

"Feeling better?" His voice was low. John suppressed a shudder.

"Yes," he said, forcing his voice to sound like it normally would, despite the internal convulsions he was currently experiencing, "Much."

"Good," Sherlock said, removing a small glass slide from the microscope and peering at it intently, "Very good."

John nodded awkwardly, an effort gone unnoticed as Sherlock's eyes never strayed from the slide between his fingers. Mid-nod, he turned on his heel and made his way over to the fridge. Dinner… If he didn't get something in his stomach, he really was going to be sick. Working his hands carefully around Sherlock's experiments so as not to disturb any of them, (at least two new ones had joined the collection in the last few hours) John removed what he needed to make a sandwich and glanced around the kitchen, the silence between them so tense he imagined if he moved quickly enough, he could cut it in half and watch it bleed to death.

One sandwich later, neither of them had spoken again and John began to accept the fact that awkwardness of this caliber would not die easily. Balancing his sandwich in one hand and carting the bag of crisps he'd purchased earlier in the other, he began to make his way towards the stairwell when at long last Sherlock finally spoke. John's body went rigid.

"About earlier…" The taller man began, looking up from his slide at long last, only to tear his eyes away only seconds later, "I'm sorry if ah-"

"It's… It's fine," John cut him off, rushing to put an end to the conversation before it had a chance to begin, "Just er… caught me off guard… was all."

"Right," Sherlock agreed.

For the briefest moment, John almost thought the detective's cheeks might've gone slightly red. But that couldn't be right. Sherlock didn't get embarrassed. At least… John had never seen it. Not once, and the two of them had been living together for more than a year.

Realizing he was staring again, John tore his eyes from the other man and made his way quickly upstairs. Idiot. God, he was an idiot!

* * *

John wasn't generally terrified of anything, but the prospect of coming face to face with Sherlock again was more than enough to keep him holed up in his room for the rest of the night. After another hour or so of battling with himself over the definition of his own bloody sexuality, (and working his way through one or two - okay, maybe _three _- entirely unintentional fantasies) John finally managed to successfully take his mind off Sherlock. It didn't matter, he told himself. Things would blow over by morning, or at least in the next couple of days, and things would go right back to being normal as they ever were.

Save for the fact that John now secretly wanted to shag his flat-mate's brains out.

But that didn't matter! Honestly! He could live with that! Sherlock never had to know, and even if John ever _did_ work up the courage to tell him, it certainly wouldn't be for a very long time. Some years from now when this whole stupid incident had been pushed from both their memories, entirely.

It was at that moment that his bedroom door flew open, doorknob colliding roughly with the wall as Sherlock stepped in, leaning immediately against the doorframe, one arm drapped sensually over the top of his head and one leg peeking out from behind a curtain of red silk. He was wearing the dress. Fucking hell!

"Do you find me attractive, John?" The question was innocent enough, but John was so stunned by the entire situation that he couldn't will himself to speak. Word-vomit didn't even begin to describe the string of sounds that spewed from the back of his throat.

"Pardon?" The daft bastard smirked, then, and John was certain he'd never been quite so angry in his entire life.

What did Sherlock think he was doing here? Wearing _that_, no less? Shutting his laptop rather forcefully, John took a moment to collect himself and his thoughts, resolving to put an end to the whole bloody mess here and now.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked, containing his anger for the moment and focusing all his energy on keeping his voice low and even, "Why are you wearing that?"

"Your pupils dilated," the consulting detective said as he resumed a less seductive posture.

"What?"

"In the living room, when you first came in and saw me, your pupils dilated."

"And?" Honestly, John should've known better. Of course Sherlock noticed. He noticed everything. He was a bloody genius, the brilliant bastard.

"Your palms were sweaty, your cheeks were flushed, and, if I had any prior doubts as to the fact, Mrs. Hudson more than confirmed the elevation of your temperature." It was odd to see Sherlock rattling off deductions in such a state (John was far more used to the cheekbones and the scarf and the turned up coat collar) but then, he supposed, the dress didn't have to make the man. "All signs," the other man finished at long last, "of intense and immediate attraction."

A long silence stretched out between them and for a moment John was rendered unable to speak. To even form words, really. So Sherlock had cracked it. Fine. That was fine. John always figured he would, anyways.

"But why are you wearing the dress?"

"As I said, immediate attraction," Sherlock reiterated, "You've never exhibited attraction of this caliber before. Far be it from me to bar you from any fetishes you may have."

John wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss the man or punch him to death. Rather than doing either, he settled for a happy median.

"Wait wait wait!" John cried, preventing the man from continuing his dreadful deductions, "Just wait. Stop. No." He buried his face in his hands, too mortified to face the man. "Nonononononono." He shook his head frantically. "No. Sherlock. It wasn't the dress."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look, as though John were a child trying to disguise the fact that he'd just taken a pair of scissors to the cat.

"John, honestly. You don't have to hide-"

"No!" John screeched, effectively cutting the other man off, feeling even more flustered than before, "I don't have a bloody cross-dressing fetish!"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, looking John right in the eyes, "There's no shame-"

John looked away for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose hard in frustration and mentally blocking out the rest of what Sherlock had to say. Oh, _sod_ it!

"Sherlock," John said impatiently, snapping his gaze back to the man in red, suddenly all seriousness. "I want you to listen to me."

To show that he was, Sherlock looked back at him pointedly, folding his arms and keeping his eyes wide like a petulant child.

"Are you listening?"

"Obviously!" The man responded impatiently.

"Good," John replied, and took a moment to suck in a deep breath. Now or never, he supposed. Whatever happened now, he'd certainly be regretting _something_ in the morning. "If you're trying to seduce me, it's bloody well working, so why don't you save the deductions about my fetishes, take off that Godforsaken dress, come over here, and let's bloody shag already!"

For a moment Sherlock stared on in stunned silence, and John almost started laughing, because he was certain he'd absolutely never seen anyone look so shocked in his entire life. And he'd invaded Afghanistan. But the moment was over before he ever got a chance to do so, and their positions reversed while he watched in awe as Sherlock stripped himself of the dress in a second flat, the damnable thing lost in a crumpled heap of ruby silk against the floorboards.

Within moments Sherlock had him pinned to his own bed, much the reverse of his fantasies earlier in the evening, lips upon lips and hands roaming about wildly, and John couldn't help but wonder how something as stupid as Sherlock helping Mrs. Hudson tailor a dress had finally pushed them both over the edge and into this moment that'd probably always been lurking somewhere in the shadows of the horizon.

He didn't care, he decided. He honestly didn't. And casting away any remaining concerns he had about the stupidity of the situation, John brought his lips down on Sherlock's neck and started drawing out the sounds he'd been trying not to imagine all night.

John Watson didn't have a cross-dressing fetish, goddammit, but that didn't mean he was devoid of fetishes, entirely.


End file.
